


Lost Rights

by AJ_Lenoire



Series: Avengers Fan Fiction Collection [16]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Is Not Married, Clint Needs a Hug, Could be either, F/M, Friendship/Love, Male-Female Friendship, Mindfuck, Post-Avengers (2012), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/pseuds/AJ_Lenoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton reflects on the Battle of New York and his part in not just it's end, but it's culmination. An old friend helps him see sense, but he feels he has lost the right to their aid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Rights

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I wrote this _AGES_ ago, as in, years ago. I've kinda fallen out of shipping Clintasha because of the developments of AoU. That said I still think it's miles better than Hulktasha (*shudders*) even if I don't ship it _quite_ as hard as I used to (come on Winterwidow).
> 
> Anyway, I still think Loki's comment in Avengers, " _...and when he screams... ___" ect, ect, is a little ship-y. At any rate, I felt there was no point in turning it into the novella I intened, ad I put it up as just the first chapter, which can round off quite nicely on its own. It's also kinda long but I think it works, so...yeah. Enjoy!

_“I want to know what you’ve done to Agent Barton.” The young woman demanded, crossing her arms and standing just close enough to the glass so that he could see why she was so good at what she did. The set of her jaw, the hardness of her eyes, the muscles feigning relaxation, but in truth, coiled like springs to jump into action at any given moment. Not unlike a black widow spider._

_The prisoner smiled, “I’d say I’ve expanded his mind.” He answered, not about to give anything a way. Just as the woman before him was the best at what she did, he was the best in his own respective field. And that was reading people, manipulating them, finding out every secret in their dark little hearts._

_Agent Romanov unfolded her arms and took a few steps closer to the cage, “And once you’ve won...” she asked, her words slow, calm, commanding, “Once you’re King of the Mountain...” he could have sworn there was scorn in her voice, humour at his supposedly insane dream. Well, she would pay for that, later. And he knew exactly how. “What happens to his mind?” He – the prisoner – had yet to unlock every mystery of the redhead before him, but her partner, Agent Barton, was a magnificent start. To a trained eye, she did not look formidable – at least, not only formidable – she looked desperate._

_“Oh...” he smirked, not letting on in the slightest. He was the Trickster, and trick he would. “Is this love, Agent Romanov?” Yes. Desperate indeed._

_“Love is for children.” She replied bluntly, “I owe him a debt.” Her composure did not wane in the slightest, but he could see something in her eyes. She may believe that love is for children, but she didn’t follow it._

_He stepped back casually, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture; welcoming knowledge, for knowledge is power. “Tell me.”_

_She paused, considering this. Then she decided, and as she spoke, she turned away from him and sat herself down in a chair, “Before I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D....I, uh...well, I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skill set. I didn’t care who I used it for. Or on.” She paused, as though remembering a fond memory._

_“...I got on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me. He made a different call.” Agent Barton was the reason she was still breathing right now. He had seen her potential and requested that S.H.I.E.L.D., instead of executing her, recruited her. It was a suggestion that held the weight of both her life and his career. But S.H.I.E.L.D. had agreed. They had taken her in and trained her up, almost suspicious of how eager she had been to use her skills for a cause other than the enjoyment of corporate fat cats. Of course, they hadn’t known what had been required of her then._

A-ha. _The prisoner thought,_ so it _was_ a fond memory _. He wouldn’t have been surprised if that had been the first time anyone had given a damn about her without having one of her knives to their throat. “And what will you do if I vow to spare him?” he inquired,_

_“Not let you out.” She replied immediately. He relented slightly. Perhaps their connection wasn’t what he had thought it to be. Or maybe she really was just that good. Because he knew what she had been up to before being called back. She knew her devotion to her work. It took an awful lot to drag the Black Widow from her prey._

_He smiled, a cold humourless smile. “Oh no, but I like this. Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man?” His smile became scornful, but she was not thrown._

_“Regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over that, I’m Russian. Or I was.”_

_“And what are you now?”_

_“It’s really not that complicated. I’ve got red in my ledger, I’d like to wipe it out.”_

_“Can you? Can you wipe out that much red? Dreykov's daughter, Sao Paulo, the hospital fire? Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping, it's **gushing** red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer... PATHETIC! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code. Something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will never go away.” He raised a fist and slammed the glass, making her jump, “I won't touch Barton.” He snarled, “Not until I make him kill you! Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I'll split his skull! This is **my** bargain, you mewling quim!”_

_Natasha turned away sharply, her breath hitching, “You’re a monster.” She told him, her voice tearful and breathless._

_“Oh no.” He grinned sadistically, laughing as he corrected her, “You brought the monster.” She would pay for laughing at his dream, and his plan for her death, he would ensure it happened. He had seen inside Agent Barton’s mind, he saw how Barton was the sole person that she, this deadly, guarded assassin trusted; the one person whom he knew as well as himself; the one person whom she knew as well as herself. How he was looking forward to his scream, his expression as he lifted the spell, just long enough for him to see what he had done to her, not just killed her, but so much **more**._

_“So, Banner?” suddenly she was no longer crying, no longer turned away. She was facing him, her expression cool and collected, her gaze measured. The crying had been pretend. Just how many of her words had been lies?_

_“What?” he said, so completely caught off guard that his demeanour dropped, and she could see him for what he really was. A jealous little boy. A whiny younger brother. A megalomaniac._

_But Agent Romanov was not paying attention to him, she had a finger to her ear and was addressing her superiors. “Loki means to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab, I'm on my way. Send Thor as well.” She walked briskly towards the door without a second glance at the contained ‘god’. Then as if suddenly remembering he was there, she turned to face him, hands modestly clasped before her as she smiled at him, her eyes full of scorn._

_“Thank you...” she told him, “For your cooperation.”_

* * *

 

It is four months after the battle.

Four months since the battle for New York was won. Loki was in chains and had been taken back to Asgard for trial. And later, punishment. The Avengers team had been put on leave. Each of its members returned to their lives, and for the most part, life continued on much as it had before – albeit, Tony’s ego was even more inflated. Many wondered how that was even possible. They also agreed that if it got any bigger, he might start floating with all the hot air in his head.

The aforementioned _Agent Barton_ , who was part of the Avengers team and acted under the pseudonym of Hawkeye, no longer had this “expanded mind” of his. Loki’s control over him had been effectively removed when Agent Romanov (again, another Avenger, whose pseudonym was _Black Widow_ ) executed a _cognitive recalibration procedure_ upon him. Jargon aside, she shoved him headfirst against a metal pipe.

But that was not the end of Agent Barton’s duties. He fought in the battle for New York and he helped to win it. However, as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, first and foremost, he did not get as much of a holiday as the others did. Neither did Agent Romanov, for she was also a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent first and foremost. Romanov and Barton were considered to be S.H.I.E.L.D.’s deadliest and most effective agents; a formidable, unstoppable team, and within three days of the battle, both agents were back out in the field. They had to be, for they were ranked in power and effectiveness among the great Captain America; and Thor, the Norse God of Thunder.

However, there was something unusual about this. Both agents may have been out in the field, but it was one of those rare times when they were not working the same job. So many times had Romanov gone undercover, with Barton acting as her guardian angel; putting arrows through people’s jugulars, notifying her if something unexpected cropped up, and, on very rare occasions, jumping in to save her when the odds got out of hand. This had happened only once.

For now, at least, they were not a team. Barton was on leave, Romanov was working small jobs on her own. She had been back to work within days of the battle, like a rubber ball. Barton is usually similar, but the battle had been especially difficult for him.

_“Tasha, how many agents did I—?”_

_“Don't. Don't do that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for.”_

So, on this day, approximately four months after the battle, Agent Romanov, AKA Black Widow, returned from Indonesia on a mission. The mission had been successful, with no fatalities other than the person she had meant to kill. That was something impressive for Agent Romanov. When she had first joined S.H.I.E.L.D., the man who had “made a different call” had been assigned to her after her first mission, because of her tendency to deviate from protocol. Before S.H.I.E.L.D., it had been _get the job done, at any cost_. Now, not so much.

After S.H.I.E.L.D. had agreed to recruit her instead of kill her, Agent Romanov had been sent on her first mission. It had been a solo mission; S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t trust her alone with any of their men, not yet. She had completed the mission, but killed far too many people in the process. With the order to make sure they stayed more covert, Agent Barton had been assigned to her. Twenty-four seven.

 _“You’re the one who dragged her into this.”_ Fury had told him, _“So you’re the one who’s going to be dragged down by her if you don’t keep her in check! I want you watching her, Barton. I want to know when she eats, when she sleeps, when she **sneezes**! If you’re bringing a goddamn KGB spy into **my** nice, shiny government organisation then **you’re** the one who’ll be cleaning up her messes!”_

In the years gone by since his being assigned to her, S.H.I.E.L.D. had gradually let up on her surveillance, and now, she was as trusted as any other agent – probably more so, she was Level 10 for god sakes. As a result, when she went on solo missions, Fury had the strictest confidence that she would complete them to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s standard. And complete them to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s standard she did.

Romanov arrived back from Indonesia late one evening, and reported to Director Fury, promising a full report in a few days’ time. She was entitled to three days’ rest after any and all missions before having to once more check in to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters. She usually didn’t use those days, however, because she often had nowhere to stay. In her line of work, homes and families didn’t really exist. Her apartment had been frugal and basically stripped of anything remotely home-y.

So as she was leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. with the full intent of checking in the following day, but she was just looking for somewhere to sleep for the night. She'd had an apartment, but it had been destroyed in the battle. Her prayers were answered, however, when her phone spoke.

“NATASHA!” She recoiled at the loud, jovial voice of Tony Stark, AKA Iron Man. She scowled for a moment, annoyed that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s lab tech’s had not yet figured out a way to stop him just hacking into her phone, and forcing him to call her and wait for her to pick up like a _normal_ person.

But nothing about Tony Stark was normal.

He seemed to be shouting at her down the phone, but it was echoed. He was probably in his lab working on something, and had noticed her return. No doubt Fury had alerted him, because Fury had _known_ her apartment had been destroyed. She scowled at this. She didn’t like needing help. There was only one person (maybe two) she would willingly accept help from, and it wasn’t Tony _or_ Fury.

“It’s Agent Romanov, Stark.” She replied pointedly, “As long as I’m outside, it’s Agent Romanov.” But in truth, it was nice to hear from him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony seemed uninterested, “Whilst you were working for me it was _Natalie_ , and in the battle it was _Black Widow_. You can’t blame me for not knowing your name schedule.”

“No doubt you have _access_ to it.” she pointed out dryly, which was met with a loud raspberry. Not a correction, however. “What do you want, Stark?” she asked, an involuntary smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Stark was a prick, but he was a good enough guy.

“Well, a little one-eyed bird told me that you don’t have a place to crash.” He replied, “And since my tower is pretty much fully repaired, and with no shortage of rooms, I thought _why not_? It is the Avengers Tower, now, after all.”

Natasha snorted, “Oh really?” she asked with a smirk, “You’re just housing me out of the _goodness of thine own heart_?”

“Well, it might not have been a one-eyed birdie, so much as a one-eyed grizzly bear.” Tony amended, a little sheepish. Even he, in his egotistical bigotry, knew that Natasha Romanov was not someone to play around with. “Plus, Pepper threatened to sleep in another room for two weeks.”

“So what? Did your right hand dump you?” She asked, and when Tony was unamusedly silent, she added, slightly grudgingly, “Thanks, Stark, I’ll be there in ten.” She didn’t like taking help, but Pepper was pretty nice, and a proper bed to sleep on was always much better than the stiff, board-like ones in the headquarters. It was getting dark, anyway, and she doubted there was a functional hotel that was closer to her than the Avengers Tower was.

“Brilliant, birdie _will_ be pleased.” Tony’s voice had a near audible grin to it, and before Natasha could ask why Fury would be _pleased_ , he hung up. She didn’t realise that Fury wasn’t the “birdie” Tony had been talking about.

* * *

It was late.

Late, like, late-enough-to-be-dark-but-everyone’s-still-awake late. He could see the flickering lights of the cars that sped along the roads, the bright clothes of the clubbers, the moonlight sparking off the jaggedly broken metal; debris from the battle that had yet to be cleared or used. But there was a surprisingly small amount left. Most of it had been dealt with, and the city was slowly healing the scar that Loki had left upon it.

Stark had been kind enough to offer him a room. Not just temporarily, but for as long as he liked – a whole _floor_ , in fact, as he had an abundance. Like most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, he despised the hard, stiff beds that were “standard-issue”, and had readily accepted Stark’s offer. The genius had even been kind enough to give him one of the topmost floors.

So now, he was perched on the ledge, on the balcony that led into his room, staring out onto the city below. Most people would be terrified of such heights, and though he always got a rush of adrenaline, he was never scared. The sight of the drop invigorated him, made his mind sharper, his senses more acute. This, unfathomably, was his safe place. His happy place. High above danger, able to see anything and everything, watching over the people below, like a bird in a forest tree. He loved being able to see it all, like a watchful, vengeful spectre, how, if he just had his bow in his hands, he could seamlessly kill all and any hostile targets, without any casualties at all.

He has sat here for hours on end, rain or shine or wind or hail. Every night, he sits out here, disregarding the weather, be it freezing or boiling. Each day, he hopes that the cool air on his face, the distant sounds of traffic, of life, will remind him. Make him remember.

The time before Loki.

The time before he was woken several times a night by his own screams. The time before he could go to sleep without worrying he might fall once more under the spell. The time before he bolted his door and never left the room, for fear of killing someone. The time before he was unmade.

Like every night, he tried to go to sleep. Like every night, he lay down in his bed, on his side, terrified, and closed his eyes. Like every night, he woke up less than two hours later, screaming his head off, drenched in sweat and tears. Before Loki, he never cried. Before Loki, he hadn’t cried since he’d been separated from his brother, left to die in the mud after being beaten by the people he’d once considered his family. Now he cried every night, in his sleep, the beads of salty water squeeze themselves from his closed eyelids, marking him as weak.

His tendency to cry is only one of the many reasons why he has locked the door to his room. Before, people used to come, two or three different people, several times a day. _Do you want to come out?_ They would ask, and he would remain silent. More often than not, it was because he had stripped off his shirt and crammed it into his mouth to muffle the sounds of his yells as he had one of his panic attacks. Before Loki, there were few things that could even raise his heartbeat. Now look at him, balling up a shirt and stuffing it in his mouth, screaming, breaking into nervous sweats, panic attacks. Weak.

These thoughts came to him as the cool wind dried the sweat and tears from his body. He was only in sweatpants and a light grey t-shirt, but he was boiling, drenched in a nervous sweat. This night had been no different.

Only now, it was about to become very different.

For the first time in his life, he looked over the edge of his balcony. He still got that rush of adrenaline, but it felt dull and stale to him right now. He didn’t focus on the feeling, or the view or the noise, he only focused on the drop. How far? One hundred feet? Two hundred? For the first time in his life, he looked over the edge and considered jumping.

And why not? He was useless to S.H.I.E.L.D. in the state that he was in. He had killed god-knows-how-many agents under Loki’s control, and the bastard god’s spell could still be lurking inside of him, hiding away to strike at the perfect moment, when his guard was down, when he was surrounded by good agents, by Fury or Natasha or any of the other Avengers. That was another reason why he bolted his door. He hadn’t seen another human in weeks, hadn’t heard one, either. Everyone but Pepper had long since stopped trying, and even she only left a tray of food out for him every day. And even then, she never said anything. He didn’t take the tray inside his room because he wanted to eat it, he just took the food to show that he was still alive. Pepper had no way of knowing otherwise; the first thing he had done was disable the cameras and microphones in the room. He didn’t want Pepper or Tony to see him in this pitiful state.

But there was someone else too. If they had seen him like this, so weak, so vulnerable...if they had seen him, he would fling himself off this ledge, no questions asked. Even if they weren’t present for it, they would know if he jumped, just as he would know if _they_ jumped.

He is not near the edge now, but he is outside. He is leaning against the glass door that separates his room from the outside world. Its half open, a feeble attempt to cool his sauna-like room. But the glass is pleasant and icy cold, thanks to the not-so-gentle breeze of the night air. It’s strong enough to ruffle his hair, but not so much that he can’t hear. He tilts his head back, resting it against the glass. His body is warming it, and soon he will have to move. But right now, he simply can’t find the energy. The past few weeks haven’t just run him ragged, they’ve run him into the ground. Time and time again, so much so that he can barely get up; what’s the point if he’ll just get run into the ground again?

And maybe it’s better like this. Loki won’t want a weak soldier. If he’s weak and Loki returns, maybe the bastard god will kill him. It won’t be quick or painless, most certainly the very opposite, but it would be an end. An end to his miserable existence. He hates the desperation, the despair in his thoughts. It’s pathetic. He disgusts himself.

And he scares himself. The prospect of Loki looming over him, waiting to take control at any moment, it terrifies him. So he scolds himself for feeling fear and weakness, but he doesn’t have much energy to do that. He gets only a few hours of sleep each night, in short, sudden bursts. Just enough to function, but not much more. He knows that the walls aren’t soundproof, which is why he stuffs his shirt in his mouth when he screams. And he knows this because Pepper keeps leaving pills by his food. Pills to calm him, pills to help him sleep, pills for headaches.

He tried taking them once. The ones that were meant to help him sleep. They worked, he fell asleep and didn’t wake for hours, but it only prolonged the terrible nightmares. His inability to force himself awake only lengthened the torture in his mind. This is what cements the idea of Loki inside of him. The nightmares are so perfectly tailored to his deepest fears, so exquisitely conducted to his own terror, that they can’t be mere coincidence. A part of the bastard god must still be inside him, torturing him from within, wearing down his resistance.

He hasn’t tried the pills again.

He is still resting his head against the glass, which is starting to become the same temperature as him, when he realises it. He doesn’t hear it, there’s no way on Earth he could ever hear it. He doesn’t see it either. He just...knows.

They are behind him.

The one who would know if he jumped, the one he fears most right now, the _one person_ he wants to be as far away from as possible. He tries to think of an escape plan; maybe if he jumped the ledge and grabbed onto the side of the tower...no, that wouldn’t work. He isn’t even wearing any shoes, his physical strength is pitiful, the tower is smooth as ivory – his floor is the lowest one with balconies. And they could catch him anyway. They are faster than he is, even when he is in a decent state. So he tries a different approach.

“Go away, Tasha.” He mutters. It’s quiet, but he knows she heard it. It’s a feeble demand, but what else can he do? He closes his eyes and tilts his head to the side, facing away from the opening in the glass doorway. He will not face her. He can’t let her see what he has become. She is the one who, if she saw him like this, he would jump. But he knows it’s no use trying to now. She would catch him easily; he’s slower than her at the best of times. She would catch him and he would spend hours upon hours listening to her rant at him.

But despite his request, she doesn’t go.

He didn’t expect her to, in all honesty, but some irrational part of him believed that she would. He instead, feels her drawing near. She makes no sound as she does this, not a single noise. She doesn’t even have to try, either. The only way he knows she’s approaching is because he knows her. And he feels her presence when she draws near the door.

He gets to his feet, quicker than he thought was possible in his condition. The desperation from earlier has grown stronger, but so has his fury at himself. It’s not a good mix. But this anger fuels his sudden jump to his feet, and the brisk walk to the edge of the balcony. He places his hands on the railing and bows his head. The sudden change from sitting to standing has nauseated him a little, and he tries not to grab the railing too tight; she would notice if he did. He fails. He can see his knuckles, still feeling so warm just like the rest of him, but they’re white on the metal railing. She doesn’t go to approach him, but she doesn’t leave either. He doesn’t need to see to know that.

“Go _away_ , Tasha.” He insists, disgusted by the guttural desperation in his voice. But she needs to leave. If he’s right, if a part of Loki is still inside of him, this is the perfect opportunity to strike. He refuses to give the bastard god that opportunity.

When she still doesn’t leave, the desperation becomes more potent, the anger too. Anger at Loki, but mostly at himself. He used to be able to keep his emotions in check, rearrange his face into a mask. He used to be Agent Barton, a respected and feared agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. He used to be Hawkeye, a force to be reckoned with, an Avenger. Now he’s just Clint. Pathetic, weak, a slave to his emotions. But something pricks this, something new throws itself into the cauldron of emotion raging through him. The particular feeling that joins this frenzy is desire. So long has he been without human contact...he doesn’t even realise how much he missed it. Missed _her_. Agent Romanov. Black Widow. Natasha.

But now it hits him like a wall, and he feels weak again, stumbling slightly even though he’s not moving, his hands gripping the railing even tighter; something real and cold to cling on to in this confusion. He wants so bad to face her, touch her, the one person he trusts. But he can’t. If he does, Loki will strike. Besides, he can’t stand to let her see him like this; so weak, so broken. He is supposed to be her partner. Supposed to be strong, absolute, unbreakable.

“The door...” he starts, then pauses. Exhaustion is setting in, and he licks his dry lips, “The door was locked for a reason.”

“And what’s that?” comes the soft reply. He loves the sound of her voice. Even though it was a simple question, he wants so badly just to turn to her and...he doesn’t know. But he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_.

“I...I can’t tell you that.” He mutters, and he knows the question that’s coming. _Why?_ He knows she’ll ask and that he can’t tell her. “I just can’t.” he adds, before her mouth can even form the word. He needs her to go, before Loki strikes, or before he breaks, or both. He just needs to be alone.

“I need reasons, Clint.” Her voice is sharp. Not harsh and cruel, just sharp. A sharp noise to his drugged, slow senses, like a needle prick just as you’re falling under anaesthesia. Stern and demanding, the Natasha he knows. He shakes his head doggedly. He can’t give her those reasons.

“I mean it.” she insists. Now her voice is soft again. Quiet and gentle and maybe a little desperate herself. But he is so out of practice that he doesn’t know if she’s playing him or if she means it. “Ever since the battle, you’ve been avoiding me. We haven’t been on a paired mission for months!” her voice grows a little louder, but not by much. He still isn’t facing her, but he can sense her calming herself.

“I need reasons.” She repeats,

“Like what?” he retorts, surprised by the venom in his voice. _Oh God..._ he was suddenly feeling more awake, more alert. It was fear, _is it him? Is he taking me over?_ He tensed, which was almost an achievement, considering his level of exhaustion. After avoiding Natasha for this long, he wasn’t about to put her in danger now. “Never mind.” He continued, his voice firm but not harsh, “You should go.” He needed her gone, out of the way.

“I’m not going until you tell me why.” She replied, her voice was gentle, but held an undercurrent as firm as his own voice had been. He knew it was no use fighting her or trying to force her to leave. Even if he was in good enough physical condition, he wasn’t going to face her. He had to remain firm, strong. He couldn’t let her see the tear tracks, the dark circles, the fatigue in his movements. He wouldn’t let her see him like this, and he didn’t dare touch her if Loki was starting to take him over. A moment was all he’d need.

“Clint,” She pleaded to him, and he swore that his hearing was starting to deteriorate along with his stamina. But then he remembered it was because he wasn’t wearing his hearing aids. He hadn’t for weeks. But he had heard the pleading in her voice. Natasha didn’t plead. She was strong. Even in the room, when he had first woken up, she had been strong. But the sound of his name, no matter when or how she said it, was always a blow to his heart. Not a painful one, more like a bolt of confusion. It was strange but comforting to know that she cared. But now he wondered if it was just because of the debt she owed him; the red ink in her ledger that she so badly wanted to wipe out.

“I need to know why,” she continued, and he didn’t have the energy to move away as she approached him.

“Why you locked your door...”

She drew closer, and her voice grew softer.

“...why you’re avoiding me...” she continued, and he could tell that she was outstretching a hand to touch his shoulder.

“...why you won’t look at me.” She finished, and she placed her hand on his shoulder. He could feel the thin leather of her glove, she was still wearing her mission gear, the same jumpsuit she had worn in the battle, the same jumpsuit she always wore on missions. He could feel where the leather on her fingers ended, her bare fingertips lightly pressing on his shoulder through his shirt.

His breath hitches when she does this. A reaction that he could have prevented, _should_ have prevented. He needed her gone, for her safety and for his own preservation. She needed to leave, but he wasn’t able to force her to, and she wasn’t leaving without answers.

But he had to try.

He pushed past her roughly, thanking a god he didn’t believe in that he didn’t see her face; he could just imagine the hurt and betrayal scrawled across her visage when he did this. He hated pushing her away; in fact he wanted little more than to be near her again, to work with her, talk with her, simply be in her company. There was only one person either of them trusted, and that was each other. But Loki was inside of him, and he had killed agents. He had damn near killed Natasha, too. He had _tried_ to kill her. So if she was to remain safe, she had to stay away.

“If you want a partner on missions, I’m sure Fury can get you a new one.” He told her. He could tell that she was still standing on the balcony, no doubt confused and hurt as to why he had pushed her away. It wasn’t because he was being rough; they used to spar together all the time, she had even broken his arm once. It was the fact that he _meant_ to harm her, to push her away. This wasn’t a game, this wasn’t training.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” She told him, “I _have_ a partner. I just want to know why I never see him anymore.” He is still facing away from her, forcing himself to focus on pouring a drink. He had consumed little more than alcohol in these past weeks, because only alcohol seemed to dull the visions. When he blacked out from drinking too much, he didn’t dream, and he didn’t have nightmares. It was the closest he got to peace.

He was so damn tired. So tired of avoiding her and her questions. That was why he had taken up Stark’s offer to live in the tower; he hadn’t wanted to run into Natasha at headquarters. He knew that Loki had a particular issue with her. It had been she who broke him from Loki’s control, she who had figured out his plan to unleash the Hulk, she who had closed the portal. If Loki had to kill any of the Avengers (other than his brother, who was the obvious choice) then he would pick Natasha. Maybe that was why Loki had enslaved him. He was as close to Tasha as anyone could get.

Suddenly, he felt hands on his shoulders and he was being slammed into a wall. After a moment he realised it was Natasha, that she had spun him, that she had finally lost her patience and wanted _answers_.

But whatever angry words that were on her lips died when she saw his face. Her eyes took in the sight of his pale skin, the dark purple circles under his silver-grey eyes, the stubble that suggested he hadn’t bothered to shave in at least a week. Her exasperation turned to shock. He closed his eyes and turned his head away. “I know, I know.” He muttered bitterly, “I’m weak, I’m pathetic.” He felt her grip on his upper arms loosen. He knew it. She was appalled. “Just go.” He said tiredly, “Don’t bother. Just...go.”

“Oh God... _Clint_.” her voice was full of pity, and she hadn’t seemed to have heard him. “Is this why you locked the door?”

He was thrown, for a moment, by the genuine concern in her voice. By the care. And then he realised that she wasn’t disgusted by him. He was confused, but then he understood.

_“Is this love, Agent Romanov?”_

_“Love is for children, I owe him a debt.”_

Natasha owed him a debt. He had cared for her in her times of stress, and now she was doing the same. It wasn’t the life-saving when he first recruited her, no, they had saved each other several times over. It was the kindness he had showed her when first adjusting to S.H.I.E.L.D. But he didn’t want kindness, certainly not _fake_ kindness, so he once more pushed past her. She didn’t resist, mostly confused by his actions.

“I don’t need your pity.” He told her, wincing at the raw desperation in his voice, “You’ve got red in your ledger and you want to wipe it out, fine. But don’t use me as the mop.”

Red in one’s ledger was a bookkeeping term. Black was profit, red was debt. Romanov’s ledger was dripping red with blood, but she also had a red debt to him. She owed him comfort and care, but he didn’t want it. He had _meant_ the comfort he gave to her, he knew what it was like to have your whole world spun around and to be left behind, alone, crying in the dirt. He remembered similar times. The times when she had been new to S.H.I.E.L.D., her first few missions when paired with him, she would wake, screaming in Russian, vividly recounting memories from the Red Room. He had stitched up her injuries and filled up her glasses and done what he could to make her feel safe at S.H.I.E.L.D. It didn’t matter to him if she didn’t care for him like he cared for her. What he cared about was the pity. He didn’t want recycled pity, he didn’t want to be comforted if it was simply to wipe out red.

Now her face hardened, “What are you talking about? You think I’m still here to wipe it away?”

He turned and raised his arms in a dramatic shrug, “It’s as good a reason as any!” he exclaimed, “Just _go_ , Tasha. I don’t want your fake pity, I don’t need that debt repaid, and I don’t need you telling me how pathetic I am, either.” he gestured down at himself; sweatpants and grey t-shirt, “I’m fully aware as it is.”

His voice was angry by the time he finished, and it was soon met with anger of Tasha’s own. She looked at him as though he were mad, but he wasn’t finished. He had to keep her safe and if it meant pushing her away, he would do it. Even if it killed him.

“I locked the door because I don’t want to see you.” But he was drinking in the sight of her as he said this, it was a painful lie, and it made him ache to see the hurt on her face; after she had started to open herself up to someone she come close to losing _twice_ in the past few months, and here that person was, turning her away.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he continued, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, not to give anything away. And yet, here he was, speaking to her. “I want you to go.”

She looked hurt, so very hurt, and he could tell that her mask was dropped. This was all real, all her. “You’re lying.” She whispered. Not to herself as though consoling herself, but to him, a statement. A statement that she knew was true. A single tear tracked down her face. But it wasn’t a tear because of the words, it was a tear for the lies. “You don’t want me to go. I can tell.”

He looked away from her, a rough growl in his throat. “Fine.” He admitted, “I don’t. But I’m not gonna sit here and take your fake pity.” And she surely would. He needed her to go, he couldn’t bear the idea of her no longer seeing him as Agent Barton, as Hawkeye, an Avenger. He couldn’t bear the idea of her just seeing him as Clint, tormented by nightmares and broken. He didn’t want her to be here if it was all an act, and he didn’t want her to be here in case Loki struck.

“You think I’m here because of a debt?” she asked, “You think I’d call you pathetic? I thought we were _partners_ , Clint, I thought by now you’d know the difference between a debt and _actually giving a damn_.” She grabbed him again and pushed him against the wall, frustrated in his idiocy. He struggled a little, but she strengthened her hold, easily overpowering him in his weakened state.

“You listen to me, Clint Barton.” She growled, and he knew it was no use struggling. He was stronger than her, true, but only when he was in decent physical condition, so he listened, not sure what to expect.

“I do _not_ think you’re weak and I do _not_ think you’re pathetic. You have been through a living hell, and frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t done something drastic.” There was almost bitterness in her tone, as her mind ran through all sorts of scenarios, most of which ending up with him splattered across the pavement below the tower. “And I’m not _faking pity_ to wipe my ledger, I’m here because you are my partner, my _friend_ , the _one person_ I trust. And that means that I _care_ and I want to _help_ you. So I’ll be damned if you don’t give me some answers!” she was glaring at him when she finished; a powerful look of fierce protection and intense irritation.

He took a moment for his exhausted brain to puzzle this out. She...she didn’t hate him. She didn’t think he was weak, she didn’t think she was pathetic, and she wasn’t just here for a debt. Natasha Romanov was the world’s most skilled liar, but he could always tell when she was lying; the subtle twitches in her face. And she wasn’t now. The speech had not been loving, or tender. And this was why he chose to believe she was telling the truth.

So maybe he could tell her.

“Loki.” He said simply, and she moved back slightly, more out of confusion than anything else. She let go of his upper arms and stepped back, allowing him room to breathe, and to explain. He sat down heavily on the floor, leaning against the granite worktop of the kitchen area, where he had been busying himself with a drink only minutes earlier. That same drink now sat, forgotten, as he rested his elbows on his knees, one hand dangling limply, the other being run through his hair in nervous repetitions. Natasha sat down also, in front of him, with her legs folded and her hands in her lap, watching him like an expectant schoolgirl.

Even without his fears, he didn’t like the situation. Even though Natasha was only watching him, she made him feel like he was being interrogated. This had always been his weakest point. As a sniper, he was used to watching from afar, and he very rarely got into direct combat. Natasha got up close and personal, usually fighting with fists, legs and any part of her body you could think of. He remembered what Harold Hogan (Stark’s personal driver or some shit like that) had told him how she had single handedly knocked-out and/or killed several enemy agents in the time it took _him_ to incapacitate one.

But he himself, he was used to perching high on buildings, and rarely, if ever, jumping into the fray. Since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., he had only engaged in up-front battle once when he was _supposed_ to be on observation. He was as trained in close-quarters combat as any S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, maybe a little more than most, but he had never liked getting close to targets. He could lock away his emotions, sure, but he had never been as good at spy stuff as Natasha, they broke free a lot easier than hers. He had endless patience, but his comfort zone was a hundred feet. Natasha had a patience as short as her temper, but her comfort zone was two inches.

“Loki...” he repeated, gathering his thoughts and continuing the run his hand through his hair, “He took control of me...he unmade me...he got me to kill those agents–” he broke off sharply and grit his teeth.

“Clint,” Natasha began, but he held up a hand,

“No,” his voice was half firm and half pleading, “Just... let me finish.” He took a deep breath, recollecting his thoughts, “The only reason I’m here right now is because you hit me on the head.” He paused, “But what if that was only a knockout for the spell? What if he’s still inside of me? What if I become unmade again?” he looked up at her, dark-ringed eyes wide and haunted, “Loki, he...he has a grudge against you, Tasha. I could feel it...I could _feel_ his anger at you for discovering his plan with Banner...He took me over once. What’s to say he won’t do it again?”

Natasha’s posture had slumped a little, and she was looking at him with pity. Now he knew that she wasn’t faking it to wipe out her red, it gave him comfort. Just a little, but it was enough. Natasha Romanov, his partner, his friend, his most trusted ally. They were an unstoppable team for a reason.

“So...you locked the door because you’re afraid?” she asked him, her green eyes were sad. He could read her better than any other person on the planet, alive or dead, but he couldn’t have her here. Not now, not when he was so unstable, so vulnerable. He had to protect her, because Loki lurked within him, in the shadows, waiting to strike.

He nodded tersely, but now it was even harder, because now he knew that her pity wasn’t fake, that she really cared, and that made her all the more precious to him. Unfortunately, that made it all the more vital that she left. “You need to go.” He said, his voice raw, “Every second I’m with you is a chance for him to take me over again...and if you can’t knock me out...” he paused, his eyes big and haunted, “I won’t be able to live with myself.”

_“I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you! Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I'll split his skull!”_

“Loki...” he continued, “When...when I was under his control...he could see my thoughts...my memories...he promised that he would make me kill you...” He broke off and squeezed his eyes shut, the hated memory surfacing.

“...in every way you know I fear.” Natasha finished for him, and when he looked at her, confused and afraid, she added solemnly, “He promised me the same thing.”

“So you know why you can’t be here.” He said, his voice attempting to be firm, but shaking, “Every second you’re here is another opportunity for him to...to fulfill that promise.” He remembered vividly the vow the bastard god sworn to him; a small, sinister voice in the back of his skull, then suddenly, he was in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s infirmary, strapped down to a bed like a mental patient. Waking up, still remembering that promise had scared him, but what scared him even more was the prospect that that part of him was still inside of him, that part of him that would kill Natasha without a second thought. It was a new, cold type of terror. The strongest and most potent type there was.

“I can’t do it, Tasha.” He pleaded, “If I did something to hurt you...I wouldn’t be able to cope...I wouldn’t be able to _live_.” He sighed and bowed his head, “Please,” he was simply begging now, “Please...just go. Leave me alone.”

He kept his head bowed, and heard her stand up. Internally, he both cried out as though physically wounded and sighed with relief. He heard footsteps, the light tread of her flat-soled boots on the glossy floor.

But they were drawing closer.

He looked up, and he saw her kneeling before him, and she placed her gloved hands on his cheeks, caressing his face, fixing him with an intense gaze.

“I am _not_ leaving you.” She said sternly, but with an undercurrent of devotion, the undercurrent that was only ever directed at, only ever heard by _him_. “Not now, not ever. Not like _this_. Look at yourself, Clint.” She was still speaking in that tone and her eyes darted down to his body, “This is _killing_ you. Pepper told me about the nightmares, how you never come out, she can hear you screaming every night.” She leant forwards and touched his forehead to hers, a gesture that had first happened when they made it out of a tight spot. That had been the day, the one time, he had jumped into the fray when he was supposed to be on recon. He had jumped into the middle of a vicious battle to save her, and this is how they had sat later that night, for hours on end, just thanking a god they didn’t believe in that they were both alive, both safe. The night they became more than just mission partners.

“Natasha...” he murmured. It was in the same voice when she had refused to answer his question about Loki after he woke up, the same voice just before she had crashed him into the barrier and broken the spell. The voice he saved specially for her name. When he was pleading to her. _For_ her.

“I am _not leaving_.” She told him, her voice harsh, “I don’t care what you say but I am not letting you kill yourself living like this. When was the last time you were in a training room?” Months ago, he hadn’t touched his weapons since the battle, he hadn’t trusted himself, “When was the last time you were on solid ground?” The same day he had checked into Stark tower. “I don’t care what you say, I don’t care if Loki is in this _room_. I am staying here, and if he comes out again I’ll knock him out of you like I did last time.” Her intense gaze turned softer, but in the same way, fiercer. She was making a promise to him, a commitment.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” He protested weakly. But she shook her head,

“I won’t.” she promised him, “You’re in no shape to hurt me. I knocked you out once when you were under his control, and that was when you were fully armed and fully functional.” She stroked one thumb on his cheek, just below his eye, and he could tell she was scrutinising the dark circle under it. “I am your partner. I’m not leaving you behind. I’ll fight him if he comes, whether he’s in you, or Tony or as himself.” She paused, then added in a whisper, “Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you, Clint. Not here, not on my watch. I promise.” She stroked the spot under his eye again, then leant up to kiss his forehead.

“I’m not worried about me.” He said, “I’m worried about _you_. I tried to _kill you_ , Tasha. How can you stand to be around me?”

“Don’t talk like that.” She insisted, meeting his gaze fiercely again, “Don’t you _dare_ talk like that. That wasn’t you, not really. You said it yourself, he took your brain and played with it, he unmade you.”

“So?” he protested, “It was my hand that pulled the string, my arrows that killed them.” He barely had the energy to over her hands with his own, curl his fingers around them and lift them away, pressing them to her chest. “You need to go, Tasha, _please_.”

“Do you _want_ me to?” she asked him, “Say you _want_ me to leave, and I will. I promise.”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He knew she should leave, she needed to be safe, but it had been so long since he’d had her so close to him, so privately. So long since there had been no threats of imminent death to distract them. It had been too long since he’d had contact with another human. And it was only now that he realised how much he had craved it.

A small smile crept up on Natasha’s face, “You’re not saying anything.” She remarked in a hushed voice. “Do you want me to go or not?”

He knew he shouldn’t, he knew it was a bad idea, he knew that it was against everything he had trained for, but he shook his head. He didn’t want her to leave. He shook his head, and then some part of him caved in, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, as though he would never let go. He burrowed his head into her shoulder, inhaling her scent and feeling her skin and hearing the beat of her heart and the hush of her breath. He couldn’t find it in himself to let her go. If all went well, he wouldn’t.

“I’ve been so scared, Tasha.” He muttered into her shoulder, and he felt her arms creep around his and hold him tightly. She was there for him, she always had been and always would be. She had been there when he woke up from Loki’s plot, and she was here now. “Every night I wake up, screaming my head off, because of those nightmares. And every time, they go the same way.” He drew a shuddering breath, “Every time they end with me killing you.” He gulped, “B-but only after...” he broke off with a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

“They’re just dreams, Clint.” She told him softly, “I promise, they’re just dreams.” She leant back out of the embrace and sat on her heels, gently grabbing one of his hands and pulling him to his feet and she rose from her crouch. He followed her with no resistance, too tired, too exhausted.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asked him. He paused for a moment and thought.

“Uh...” he concentrated harder, “What day is it, again?”

Natasha’s brow creased. This was all the answer she needed. She took a step back and pulled him along with her. “Come on,” she said, “We’re gonna get you cleaned up.” She was not smiling, but she was not scowling either. It was the determined, fiercely caring Natasha that he saw when she stitched up his wounds. It was almost a tradition with them. Every time one got injured, it was never a surgeon who threaded that needle and sewed the flesh back together, it was always the other of the pair. For each of them, the other was the only person they trusted enough to remove armour around, and that was necessary when most of their wounds were on arms and legs. They were both covered in thin, white, slightly raised scars, each one telling a story, holding a memory only they shared.

At first, he was hesitant to follow her; he didn’t want to go downstairs, he didn’t want everyone to see him in this state. So at first, he didn’t move. But when Natasha pulled a little more insistently, and he realised she was directing him in the opposite direction of the door, he followed.

She led him through his bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom, complete with shower. He just stood there, barely able to stand, as she pulled off his sweaty t-shirt and worn sweatpants, and led him into the shower. She had stripped herself of her S.H.I.E.L.D. suit, and was wearing only underwear; a white cotton bra and panties. The type that turned clear when wet. He was wearing nothing at all. The nakedness bothered neither of them; it was nothing they hadn’t seen before when stitching wounds, and he vaguely remembered one particular wound on her inner thigh, where someone had nicked her as she held them in a leglock.

Natasha dragged one of the wooden kitchen stools into the shower and sat him down on it, after seeing how tired he really was, after seeing how much of an effort it was for him to stand. He was facing away from her and leaning back against her thighs as she washed him. She rinsed his hair and upper body, and he turned to the side to see the thin white scar, barely visible against the pale skin of her leg. She had never been one for shorts, and there was no tan. He also saw a much more prominent scar, vaguely diamond shaped, on the left side of her abdomen. She called it her Winter Scar, and he knew why. For him, it was a hateful, shameful reminder.

Natasha was also unaffected by his nakedness. Not because she was tired, but because she was preoccupied with cleaning up and repairing her friend. It was probably a good thing she was trained to function in distressing situations, because part of her just wanted to throw herself on him and weep at the state he was in; her hawk, wings clipped, unable to fly. Quite a large part, in fact. There was a look of intense concentration on her face as she rinsed his hair; holding the shower with one hand and running her fingers through it with the other, but there was also a tenderness to her actions. A tenderness only he saw, and only when they were alone.

Clint sat there obediently, barely able to sit up straight, as Natasha rinsed, scrubbed and washed his body clean. She took particular care with the cuts on his hand, where, a few days ago, he had dropped a glass from exhaustion and collapsed on all fours on the ground, his left hand landing in the puddle of shattered glass and scotch. He hadn’t bothered to pick out all the shards, only the big ones, and she knelt before him, deftly and methodically picking out every last one with a pair of tweezers that came from seemingly nowhere. She stayed knelt before him as she shaved his face, and he watched her, her brow ever so slightly furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted. When he was clean, with effort, he stood up from the stool as she led him into his bedroom, and sat him down, on the edge of his bed, dripping wet. She knelt behind him and towelled him dry; first his hair, then working her way down his body as he just sat there, trying his hardest to stay awake and upright.

Natasha helped him to stand and provided him with clean pair of boxers. Then she helped him pull on a dry shirt, a clean pair of sweatpants, and clip in his hearing aids. He could hear without them, but only at about 40% of a normal person. An incident with a sonic-tipped arrow had ended badly, and he was lucky he could hear at all. Over the years, it had improved a little, but he still needed aids to hear anything lower than about 70 dB, which was just above the level of the average person’s voice. Then she knelt before him and pulled a first aid kit from the nightstand drawer, and set to work on bandaging his hand, which was bleeding after the makeshift stoppers of glass shards had been removed.

She smiled up at his clean, shaved face. “You look better already.” She remarked softly, and he smiled weakly.

“I had no idea I was this tired.” He told her, and stifled a yawn. Natasha started daubing antiseptic on his palm, and he winced, a small groan forcing itself through his gritted teeth. She glanced up at him apologetically.

“Sorry.” She muttered, then turned to the previous subject, “When was the last time you slept?”

He paused like he had before, thinking hard. “Through the night?” he asked, and she nodded, “Not for months.” He admitted. Flashes of his horrible nightmares came to mind, and he flinched as though struck. Natasha, focused on cleaning his hand, and thinking it was just the antiseptic again, said and did nothing. “But I think I blacked out for a good few hours two days ago.”

She looked up at him now. And suddenly, at that. Her eyebrows raised, but her mouth stayed in a neutral, closed line. “You blacked out?” she asked, concern lacing her voice, but for the most part, it was a blank question.

He nodded, slightly ashamed, “The only time I can sleep is if I don’t dream.” He explained, “And that only happens if I black out.”

She ‘hmm’ed disapprovingly as she placed binding strips over the largest cuts on his palm and bandaged the whole thing, making it look as though he was wearing one of her uniform’s fingerless gloves, only in white. He wasn’t sure if she was just focusing, or if she was mad at him and didn’t want to say. Considering her tendency to be bluntly honest, he assumed the former. Once he finished bandaging his hand, she looked up at him, a stern look in her eyes.

“No alcohol for you.” She commanded, “If you’re gonna get better, you need to eat and drink right.” Almost on cue, there was a knock at the door of the makeshift apartment.

“Uh, Barton?” The voice came from the other side of the mini apartment door. It was Pepper.

Clint made no move to answer or even acknowledge her presence. He wasn’t ready to talk to anyone else, to face anyone else. He had barely been ready for Tasha. In fact, he _hadn’t_ been ready for Tasha, but she forced through anyway, because she was the only person who could, the only person he wouldn’t fight.

Pepper sighed on the other side of the door, and there was a small clatter as she placed the tray down on the ground.

“Natal–...Natasha’s here, you know.” She told him. Natasha had talked to Pepper briefly when she had first arrived, but had not told anyone she was going into Clint’s room. It hadn’t been hard to find, she simply had gone for the highest floor, and checked each room, so she hadn’t needed to ask where he was.

Clint still said nothing.

“Why don’t you come out, Barton?” Pepper continued, her tone light, “It’s been a while since you’ve seen each other, and she just got back from Indonesia. You should say hi, have a chat or something.”

Clint still said nothing. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Pepper, because he did. She was a nice girl. It was a surprise that she wasn’t a superhero herself, considering she managed to put up with Tony’s ego. But he didn’t trust himself to speak and sound alright, and he knew that if he _did_ answer, she would drag him into a conversation and try to coax him out and stay there for hours on end. It was simply better to not say anything at all. Besides, he wouldn’t tell anyone the truth; it had been difficult enough for Natasha to get answers out of him.

Pepper sighed, “Okay.” She finally said, admitting defeat, “But when I find Natasha, I’m sending her up here.” And with that, she walked away. The pair listened with their S.H.I.E.L.D. agent hearing to her receding footsteps.

“I’ll get the food,” Natasha told him, “You stay here.”

He shook his head, “I’m fine, Tasha,” he said, “I can stand.” And he made to do so, but found that his legs just wouldn’t obey. He was even more exhausted than he thought, and the shower had only helped him realise this. Natasha was still knelt in front of him, and she placed her hands on his thighs, forcing him to stay sitting down.

“ _Stay here_.” She ordered, and slipped off to get the food tray. She returned, moments later, and it was only now that he realised she was still only wearing her underwear, and she was still pretty much dripping wet. There was a large wet patch on his bed where he had been sat earlier as she towelled him dry, and where she had knelt behind him. He turned to look at it; a darker blue patch on the navy blue sheet.

The whole room was dark. Not gloomy and foreboding and cold, but gentle and subdued and not meant for blinding light or loud noises. It was a calm room. Natasha returned to the room, holding the tray. Usually, he just binned it and left out the empty tray to show he was still alive and in the building. He hadn’t eaten in days, and now, with Natasha around him, with a clean body, he felt more alert. Still tired, _so tired_ , but more alert. He had more cause to function now.

When she returned with the tray, Natasha sat beside him on the bed, one leg folded underneath her, the other dangling off the edge and she watched him eat the food, bite by bite, making sure he ate everything. She made him eat the soup, the steak, the mashed potatoes, the grapes and the apple. Lastly, Pepper had given him a small chocolate bar.

Natasha herself hadn’t eaten since leaving Indonesia, and though she was hungry, it felt wrong to steal a single morsel from him, not when he hadn’t eaten in literally days, not when he was so weak. True, he probably still could have bested a junior S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in a fight, but not by much, and that was like a normal person not being able to lift their head from a pillow. So she said nothing. But Clint wasn’t an idiot. He knew she loved chocolate, and he could tell she was hungry and the treat looked so good to her, so he offered it.

“No.” she told him, pushing the wrapped treat back towards him, “You need to eat, you haven’t eaten in days.”

“But you love chocolate.” He replied, he himself, though he liked it, wasn’t as fond of it as her. Still, Natasha shook her head, adamant. Knowing there was no winning with her, he ate the bar, but he broke off one chunk and left it on the tray. Then he turned away to take a drink from his water glass, and he noticed with a small smile that the chunk was gone when he turned back to her.

“How are you feeling?” she asked him. He thought for a moment.

“I feel...better.” he said, “A lot better.” But as tired as he was, he wasn’t ready to sleep. As Natasha picked up the plates and set them outside the door, he thought of ways to try and stay awake in the night. One method he had tried was striking a match and touching it to his fingertip, but he was out of matches. When Natasha returned, she saw the fear in his eyes at the prospect of sleep.

“You should get some rest.” She told him. He shook his head. The shower and the food and the company had been great, but sleep was one thing he wasn’t moving on. He couldn’t face those nightmares again. That was why he had barely eaten; the hunger had helped him stay awake. It was hard to sleep with stomach cramps.

“Clint,” her voice took on a stern edge, “You need to sleep.”

He shook his head adamantly, “It won’t work.” He said. The nightmares would pounce upon him and send him screaming. More than once, he had lashed out in his sleep; the evidence of this being a broken lamp, the remains of which still in the bin by the kitchen worktop. What if he struck her? What if he had another panic attack and lashed out?

But Natasha merely folded her arms. Her feet were splayed and it was like she was looking at Loki in his glass cage all over again, her gaze stern and measured. She wasn’t leaving.

“I mean it, Tasha.” He insisted, “I...I have nightmares. I’ll go to sleep and then I’ll wake up immediately, it’s already happened once tonight.” He paused, “And I lash out. I broke a lamp last week, what if I hit you?”

She unfolded her arms and walked towards him. She knelt before him on the carpet, where she had sat as she mended his hand, and took said hand in both of her own.

“You need to stop worrying about me.” She told him, “I’ll be fine. Unlike you, I’m actually functional.” A small smile crept up onto her face, “Besides, if you’re that worried, I can sleep on the sofa next door.” She turned her head and they both looked to the large couch in the other room. He bit the inside of his cheek. On the one hand, he didn’t want to see her get hurt. On the other, having her around helped to distract him. She was his best friend. And honestly, she was the one person _he_ trusted, too.

But Loki.

But Tasha.

But _Loki_.

 _But_ **_Tasha_**.

“If you’re gonna stay...” he said slowly, “Then...then you can.” She smiled, relaxing. “But,” he continued, “On one condition.” When Natasha cocked her head, confused, he leant to the side and pulled out something from the drawer of the nightstand. A pair of handcuffs.

Natasha stared at them incredulously, “Where did you get _those_?” she exclaimed. Though it worked for some guys, she highly doubted Barton would have been ordering _female escorts_ to keep him company, especially in his condition. She felt a bolt of jealousy shoot through her, but pushed it away roughly. Whatever worked for him. Nonetheless, a prick of betrayal stung her.

“They were in the nightstand.” He told her, “I guess Stark has them stashed everywhere.” A strange wave of relief ran through her at those words. She wasn’t sure why, though. Her gaze flicked from the handcuffs to his face and back again as she processed the information.

“So...you’re one condition is that you handcuff yourself to the bed?” she asked, and he nodded, entirely serious.

“If...if something _does_ happen, this should slow me down for at least a few seconds.” He explained,

She looked at him with sad eyes, “Clint,” she pressed, “Nothing’s going to happen.”

He shook his head, “I know, I know,” he admitted, “I know you’re right, but...but I have to be _sure_. I don’t want to take any chances. Not with this. Not with him. Not with _you_.”

Natasha knew that arguing was futile, so she abided by his wishes. His left wrist was placed in one of the cuffs, the other was locked around the decorative bar on the bed’s headboard. Then she pointedly put the key on the kitchen worktop. There was no way he could reach it.

“You know,” Natasha pointed out, “It’s not going to be very comfortable, sleeping like that.”

Clint shrugged, he didn’t care. “Chances are, I won’t be sleeping for much of the night.” He told her. And he probably wouldn’t. He was lucky if he got four hours. His biggest issue was if tonight would be one of the nights the terrors made him vomit. That had been one of the numerous reasons he hadn’t eaten over the past few days. But now he had a full stomach and company. Sure, Natasha didn’t think him pathetic, but he was pretty confident that would change if he ended up covered in his own vomit. Not a pleasant thought.

But as unpleasant as that was, he wasn’t about to compromise Natasha’s safety. He knew he should have told her he wanted her to leave, but he didn’t have the energy to. Now, all he could do was restrain himself.

“Speaking of sleeping, could you toss me a pillow?” she asked, pulling a blanket from the top of the closet. He says and does nothing, only turning to look, somewhat gloomily, at said pillow. It looked rather nice where it was. Next to his own pillow. On the actual _bed_. Which was a double bed. One that could easily fit two.

“I...uh...” he found that he couldn’t fathom a decent excuse to not do this, other than he wanted to be close to her. But he knew that was dangerous, when the potential of Clinton still lurked inside of him.

‘Clinton’ was the name he somewhat accidentally gave to the thing he became under Loki’s control. His “real” first name was Clinton. The name he had used in his previous life, where he had done bad things... _awful_ things...simply because he had been told to. The name he stopped going by ever since S.H.I.E.L.D. picked him up from his ruins of a life. Since then, he had been Clint. Or Agent Barton. Or Hawkeye. Besides, Clinton Barton just sounded pretentious.

But as much as he feared Clinton, he cared for Natasha, and after avoiding everyone for so long...was it really so wrong he wanted to be close to someone, just for a night?

It wouldn’t be the first time anyway.

More than once, one of them returned from a solo op, and they were a little less collected than they had been prior to leaving. Most missions went without anything that they would constitute as disturbing, since both of them had been raised in violent environments, with violent people, and did violent things for a living. But sometimes it all became too much. And sometimes, words weren’t even needed. One of them just came into the other’s room at night. The other would wake and would sense who it was, and would do little else other than open the covers of their bed. And they would comfort one another with their minds, their bodies, and everything would be a little better, so when they woke up the next morning, everything could resume as normal. Friends. Partners. Allies. They had that right to one another.

But Clint knew he’d lost that right when he’d tried to kill her.

And yet... maybe she could help him. If he allowed her to, of course. Maybe, just _maybe_ , he could regain that right. She still trusted him, inexplicably. And he had no reason to doubt her trust. Maybe, lost rights could be regained. Maybe he, too, could wipe the red from his own ledger. But only if he got better, only if he conquered the nightmares and the bastard god and Clinton.

So he looked up, and, abandoning trepidation about his pathetic-ness, asked her to stay with him. She smiled softly and obliged. She had honestly been hoping he'd ask her, but had not been about to force her company upon him if he really didn't want it. But she wanted to be close to him if and when he woke, plagued by nightmares and unsure of what was real.

And for the first time in months, he slept through the night without alcohol or nightmares. Who would have thought that the Black Widow, the girl who’d killed so many, the girl he’d been sent to kill and who had tried to kill him, would ultimately be the one to save his life several times over? Would ultimately be the one to save him from the darkness and the fear of his own mind?


End file.
